


Trench Fever

by Seulkie



Series: To Arms, Boys! [2]
Category: 20th century - Fandom, History - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: 20th Century, Gen, History, Original Character(s), World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seulkie/pseuds/Seulkie
Summary: February 1917 - France





	

It had been raining for over a month now, and the trenches had been reduced to little more than a river.

Remi had been given 36 hours of patrol duty. So far, he had completed 17, all without rest. That wasn’t too unusual, especially at this point in the war. They all knew that the front meant not sleeping for days, and what sleep one did get was restless. Sleep was reserved for behind the lines, but the men were being forced to spend longer and longer amounts of time in the trenches. Remi noticed, and so did the others. He wondered how much further they would be pushed, and how much more of it they could handle.

The wooden walkways that had been placed along the bottom of the trench had all but sank into the mud. No one had been able to get fresh wood to the front for weeks, and even if they did, any bridge they built would inevitably meet a similar fate. Small parts of these walkways still remained with huddled soldiers crouched on them, bent over and shivering. One man had placed his rifle against the sandbag wall, propping his helmet and coat upon the barrel in an attempt to make a tent. It almost worked, but the wind drove the rain in all directions, so it was impossible to avoid it entirely.

Another soldier, a boy of 17, sat on the corner of a semi-submerged board. Remi watched the boy peel crusted fabric from his leg. A thick layer of mud had caked the protective covering, which did little to protect against the persistent wet and cold. Once the boy had removed the fabric from both of his legs, he pulled off his hole covered shoes, followed by a pair of thick, wool socks. Remi blinked, then grimaced when he saw the boy’s feet. They were swollen and nearly purple, with several black and grey spots starting to form. One toe in particular looked like it would be crushed like an old grape if it was touched too hard. The boy reached for a tin can, scooping out a large amount of white cream and gingerly rubbing it onto his feet. Once leather boots and better drainage systems were made mandatory, it became a court-martial offence to report cases of trench foot, so the officers simply stopped reporting it. Of course, it still happened, but now the poor sods were just given a container of whale oil, a change of socks, and a warning to stay quiet. 

Remi pulled his knees closer to his chest. His observation post was a small inlet in the wall, with sandbags piled up the sides, leaving only a slit large enough to see and shoot through. Remi was perched like a crow on a smaller sandbag tower he had made earlier, keeping his feet up near him so they were out of the water. Even without his extra height, Remi had an advantage against the rain. His father had given him a pair of high-quality boots, and while he certainly felt the wet and chill, his feet were never so exposed to the elements that they began to rot: the same couldn’t be said for those from poorer backgrounds. Remi silently thanked his fortunate birth.

The rain made it hard for either side to launch a proper attack. Soldiers got stuck, artillery couldn’t be moved, and No Man's Land looked more like a marsh than a field. There was, of course, the ever constant artillery fire being launched back and forth, but that was expected at this point. In fact, it would have been more unusual if there was complete silence. A rather large shell landed relatively close to where Remi was, but he didn’t react more than lowering his face. Only the boy, who was now putting his socks and boots back on, jumped, but even then he hardly paused from what he was doing.

There was a third man in the area, wrapped tightly in his coat. He was shivering violently, and let out small groans and grunts every once in a while. He lifted up his face to cough, and Remi noticed a rash on his cheek and forehead: this man was suffering from a case of trench fever. The rain had caused an increase of outbreaks - Remi himself had had a mild case a couple weeks back. The fever was quick and intense which left one feeling weak and dizzy; then came a headache and pressure around the eyes, followed by a rash and intense pain in the bones. It was debilitating, but luckily it only lasted a week at most. Besides, there were worse things to suffer from at the front - one usually recovered from the fever.

Occasionally, Remi would stare out across No Man’s Land and the German lines for any increase in activity, but nothing ever changed. He didn't even bother using telepathy to try and locate a potential target; in fact he now actively avoided it. It seemed so pointless to kill, so wasteful, and after Verdun, the idea of using his power to end lives made his stomach turn. The occasional boom of artillery and whistling of shells blended into the calm, becoming part of the ambience. Remi removed his helmet and balanced it upside down on his knees so it would fill with rain. He vigorously ran his hands through his hair, trying desperately to remove what dirt and lice he could before leaning his head back against the sandbags and allowing the raindrops to land on his mud covered face. He closed his eyes, revelling in how gentle the drops felt on his skin. He imagined he was back in Paris, and that upon opening his eyes he would see a street filled with stubborn people and umbrellas, all determined to get to where they needed to be despite the weather. For a moment, he almost believed it could be true, that he was home, but another explosion shattered the facade, returning him to reality.

After a minute, Remi opened his eyes and rubbed his hands across his cheeks to wipe off the loosening grime, washing them in the water gathering in his helmet. He tried his best to clean his thick, matted beard, which he was still unsure how he had managed to grow. The men had limited access to razors or grooming tools of any kind, and it showed, causing hairiness to become somewhat of a staple of the common French soldier. Remi snorted while trying to work out a knot in his beard. Apparently, those back home referred to them as _Les Poilus_ : the hairy ones. Then, the sudden stench of a rotten corpse hit, and Remi gagged, quickly burying his face in his uniform. The constant rain had made it harder to retrieve the dead, and was making them rot more quickly and odorously than usual.

Remi finished his impromptu shower, dumped the water out of his helmet, and placed it back on his head. He crossed his arms and laid them on his knees, resting his mouth against the fabric of his sleeve. His gaze settled on the man in the makeshift tent, and this time he focused in on his thoughts. 

Before enlisting, Remi had put little effort into controlling his telepathy; he simply read people’s minds and listened to their stray thoughts whenever they came to him. His family, for as long as he could remember, would communicate with him through his telepathy, sometimes even seeming to favour that method of communication with him, though they would frequently warn him to make absolutely sure he let no one else know about his ability. This memory made Remi chuckle - his mother especially would bristle if he told her other people knew he was telepathic, and she would be completely beside herself if he mentioned they were both German. Upon arriving at the front and experiencing his first bombardment, however, Remi realised he would have to learn to regulate other's thoughts or run the risk of going insane. To his initial benefit, Remi discovered he could use a German's thoughts to locate him behind the lines, and quickly became one of the most accurate shooters in his company. This led him to meet Claude and get reassigned from a regular infantryman to a sniper, a title his father supposedly bragged about endlessly to anyone who would listen. However, he also learned that hearing the desperate and gruesome thoughts of the dying, or being swarmed by German ideas which he couldn’t understand, or hiding in a bunker with 15 other frightened men who weren't sure if they would live or die, not being able to distinguish his own fear from the others, was nearly maddening.

Gaining control turned out to be a gruelling process. For 19 years, Remi had let thoughts come and go with little need to stop them, but then was all of a sudden being forced to build up some sort of regulation system, a way of focusing on the ones he wanted while blocking out the ones he didn’t. He had already figured out how to silence stray musings and the thoughts of weak-minded people - or at least quiet them down significantly - but being surrounded by men under extreme stress and, eventually, constant death, meant that there were no weak thoughts or musings. The mind of a soldier was filled with despair and fear, sorrow and pain, and those thoughts were stronger and darker than anything Remi could have ever imagined.

Eventually, he learned tricks. Remi found that if was focused on some kind of mental task, other's thoughts were less strong, and he could put up a sort of barrier to control them. This was the first method he discovered and, with Claude’s help, started to sketch as a way to direct his focus. After a few months, he was more or less able to put up this “mental wall” at will. He still wasn’t able to block out every thought entirely, but they weren’t nearly as loud, or numerous, or intrusive. Over time, the wall became stronger, and he now finds himself able to listen to or silence thoughts with ease. Of course, there are still a few that cause him trouble. There are just some thoughts that are too strong, and those ones he is forced to endure until he is finally able to expel them, or they disappear on their own.

Remi shook his head, clearing away his memories before squinting at the man in the tent, focusing in on his thoughts. The scent of mildew from the fabric of his sleeve filled his nose, but that was preferable to the smell of a corpse. The man in the tent seemed to be thinking the same thing, which made Remi smile. Sometimes he wondered if intruding on others people’s thoughts somehow subtly influenced them. The man then started to think about food, and Remi was reminded how hungry he was, as well. The rumour was that the communication trench was too flooded, and no trucks, animals, or even people could get through. Remi had also heard that the road which they used to get from behind the lines to the front had been shelled and needed repairing. Whatever the reason truly was, the men had been without rations for 2 days, and everyone was starving, save for the rats.

Suddenly, the man’s thoughts became fuzzy and distant, and then Remi felt like he was floating through the sky. He relaxed slightly, closing his eyes for a moment before breaking off his connection with the other man’s dream. The man in the tent was lucky enough to fall asleep, but Remi was always cautious about using his telepathy on people when they were sleeping, as dreams changed too wildly and unpredictably for his comfort. He shifted his attention to the boy with trench foot, but quickly changed his mind once Remi realised he was thinking about sex. The only other thoughts Remi could listen to were those of the man with trench fever, but his were just about how much pain he was in and how he wished his illness would just pass, already. Remi shook his head. Lately, the fever had become more aggressive, causing men to recover for a few days before being struck with the disease again. It seemed like this was the third relapse for this fellow, and he was starting to wonder if it would ever fully go away.

Remi sighed and stared back out across No Man’s land. The afternoon air was thick with fog and smoke that hung over the earth like ghosts, and with the combination of overcast skies, the world was doused in grey. An explosion shook the trench walls, but it was little more than a shockwave, which posed no real danger. Remi almost wished a real bombardment would start, just so that there was something different to do. Almost. He pulled out a small pocket watch and checked the time - 3:18. Claude had promised he would come around at 6 with at least a loaf of bread and some company, and, if he got lucky, some rum. Remi’s mouth watered. That was still almost 3 hours away, though, and there was no guarantee that Claude would be able to find any food at all.

Pulling out a cigarette, Remi struck a match and lit it before inhaling the smoke deeply. Learning to light a match and keep a cigarette lit despite pouring rain was, as Remi believed, one of the only useful things he had learned in the army so far. He exhaled through the slit on the sandbags, watching his smoke blend with the endless fog.

This war had to be over soon.


End file.
